Old Wine In New Bottles
by milkysloejoe
Summary: A contemporary tale of "vintage" 007 saving the world.


_Chapter 1_

As he drove his battleship grey Bentley deftly into the underground garage beneath Universal Exports HQ, James Bond savored the sudden refreshing coolness of the semi darkness and the escape from the strong sunshine that shone down on London that afternoon. It was unusually warm for that time of year, especially to Bond having just that morning returned from a delicious 2 weeks skiing at St. Moritz. He had counted on a solid 3 weeks, but a summons back to London from the office could only mean that he was needed urgently.

As he entered the lift to the top floor, Bond was for a moment taken back to the ski lift he'd ridden the day before and smiled to himself at the thought of the delightful stewardesses he's met on the lift, shot down the slope with, dined with that evening and slept with that night. When he left his suite they were both slumbering abed, returning his blown kisses at them both.

The smile crossed his lips as he entered M's office to banter as always with Miss Moneypenny, eternally wedded to the Service and The Old Man, known simply as, "M."  
"James!," Moneypenny gleefully cried as he slipped onto the edge of her desk and deposited a crisp rose into her bottle of designer water, "You look like the cat that just ate the mouse!"  
The smile grew a bit when Bond replied, "Almost Moneypenny, almost... truth be told today I'm the mouse that ate the pussy." Bond frowned for a second as if deep in thought, made the "V" for victory sign and corrected himself. "Make that, two pussies."

Moneypenny leaned forward to ask what became of the cheese, when the buzzer on her desk let them both know that M was ready to see Bond. Lifting himself from his comfy seat, Bond waived his hands in a gesture of flight and turned to enter the inner sanctum of British Intelligence.  
M was studying a pile of documents on his desk and without looking up from them, pointed to the chair before the desk for Bond to sit, and like an obedient dog, Bond sat.  
Still not looking up, M asked, "Know anything about cork, 007?"  
Bond adjusted himself in the leather bound chair, gazed slightly out of the window and replied, "County in Ireland... seals wine bottles and it floats." Bond emphasized the last word as a deliberate jest which M quickly indicated that he did not appreciate by looking directly at Bond. Swallowing his attempt at humor, Bond added, too late, "Sir."

"That bit about the wine is why you are here 007, a Eurasian millionaire is making trouble in Portugal, where they get the cork, from trees." M went on, "This fellow, Conrad Yak is very active in the Green movement, save the whales and all that sort of thing. He has developed a new and as he says, better way to seal wine than with cork... he wants to save the trees it seems from exploitation."  
Bond, genuinely puzzled, screwed up his face and asked, "Con... Yak?"

_ [ 1 ]_

M allowed a thin smile to get past him, and continued, "He's got some sort of botanist that has produced a virus that Yak intends, perhaps I should say, threatens to release into the atmosphere that is lethal to all animal life on Earth... nothing left but the plants you see. Unless the world stops using cork at once, Yak will act on his threat."  
Sighing deeply, M leaned back into his chair and said, "You are on the next flight to Lisbon where you will make contact with Head of Station, Beau Jolais."

_Chapter 2_

Slowly Bond realised the true horror of what M had just told him. It had taken years for Bond to find and perfect his own inimitable style of uncorking a wine, pouring the blood of the grape into a waiting glass, just so... it was to him an essential ingredient to a meal as it was to a seduction. That singular sound of the cork slipping out of the lip of a wine bottle always brought a smile to Bond as well as good luck. He visibly shuddered at the thought of having to unscrew a metallic cap like... like... an American.

Truly aghast, Bond uttered an audible, "Good God."  
M nodded in agreement and then reached for the console at his elbow, the one with the row of buttons, each for a distinct but clandestine purpose which Bond never knew the full of extent of. On this balmy afternoon, M pressed the button that opened a secret panel in the office wall, which inevitably admitted an expert of some sort that acquainted Bond with the most useless intelligence. It was part of the pantomime designed to impress upon Bond the idea that he wasn't as clever as he imagined himself to be.

M introduced this expert as a botanical historian of sorts to apprise Bond of the weak link in Yak's organisation and the perfect target for the attentions of James Bond... a woman.

_ [ 2 ]_

Gently removing a likeness of the woman from the manilla file holder he kept closely under his arm, the anonymous know-it-all carefully handed the photograph to Bond as if it was the only one in the world. When Bond saw the face captured there, he knew why it had been so delicately handled... she was exquisite. A brunette with a flowing mane of black hair that fell about her shoulders like a silken waterfall cascading down marble. But it was her eyes that Bond could not escape, fiercely intelligent eyes that seemed to dare the looker to try and say anything she didn't already know.  
The botanical wizard broke the spell, "Name's Brandy... P. Brandy. American, from an old Southern family, Georgia to be precise."  
Bond asked, "P...?"

"P for Peach..." came the informed answer, "seems her Father had a sense of humour as well as a mind for science... taught her himself at his knee from birth."  
Standing erect as if lecturing a classroom of pupils, the expert went on, obviously in his element. He spoke of her astonishing career at universities, discoveries of cures for plant diseases, new uses for plants as pharmaceuticals, etc., etc. She'd come to the attention of Conrad Yak after finding a rare orchid in the Antarctic, blooming under a glacier. Finishing the lecture, the expert got around to current events. "Became active in the Green Movement, pinky politics and radical anti-animal abuse and the like. Has been conjuring up God knows what for Yak and with a vengeance." With a nod, M thanked the still anonymous expert and he withdrew the way he had come.

"Well," Bond said with an air of respect, "if anyone can deliver what Yak claims to have, this girl can. I'd better get off to - "  
M cut Bond off and said, "You'd better get off to Q Branch for your kit. By the by, we haven't decided on a name for this Operation... have you any ideas for one."  
Bond thought for a moment, gazed at the photograph of the stunning woman he still held in both hands, and said in inspired triumph, "How about Operation Corkscrew?"

_ [ 3 ]_

_Chapter 3_

Bond closed the leather padded soundproof door to M's office behind him quietly as he returned to Moneypenny for more of their entendre's, but before either of them could speak the intercom on her desk sprang to life. The voice was M. "You can dispense with the chit chat Miss Moneypenny, 007 hasn't the time for it." Bond gave her a helpless shrug as he headed for the door. Opening it with a flourish at the prospect of a magnificent seduction that would save the world, again, Bond spun around and blew Moneypenny a kiss. She caught it and pressed it to her heart, smiling.

The lift that brought Bond up now took him down, several floors, to Q Branch. He'd made the trip literally countless times to spar with the head of the section, and always looked forward to it. If M was the Father figure, Q was the jolly old Uncle but with a barb or two, or ten. The fellow had recently retired to enjoy his pension in sunny Spain and Bond relished the idea of popping in to see how old age was suiting him, after the Portugal business was over. Stepping off the lift to the familiar floor of gadgets and gizmos, Bond half expected to see old Q there bent over some new project. Instead, he saw the new Head of Section, the Daughter of the former Q. She was astonishingly beautiful, considering her sire and impossibly young for the job. But she had proved her skills were every bit as keen as her Father, perhaps even keener. She'd started off in Flaps & Seals, quickly re-writing not only the book, but the whole bloody encyclopedia. As she rose in the Service, some wag had christened her, "Q'ute." Feeling tenderly toward her Bond made it known that he didn't appreciate the moniker. Still, he couldn't help but agree.

Bond announced himself and was rewarded with an irritated, "Oh... it's you 007. This way please." Walking behind her Bond couldn't help but notice the way her knee length smock conformed to and accentuated her waist, hips and thighs... 'the damn thing must be tailored for her' Bond surmised, forcing himself to look away to concentrate on the job. He stared at her golden tresses, shimmering as if made of spun gold, straight as spaghetti as they pointed down to her derriere. Bond sighed aloud in disdain as his eyes betrayed him to follow the path back again to those truly feminine curves.  
Hearing the breath escape from his lungs, Q'ute asked, "Feeling unwell, 007?"  
"No." Bond replied, "just thinking about the ski slopes."

Now it was her turn to sigh disdainfully, her Father had warned her about Bond and his refusal to grow up.

_ [ 4 ]_

It annoyed the old Q more than it did her, but out of loyalty to her Father as well as to keep Bond at arms' length, she maintained the family tradition of undisguised contempt for the playboy Bond.  
She began, "I'm surprised that they are sending you out again at your age, 007... especially on such a critical mission. Feeling up to it, are you?"

"You know what they say about old wine in new bottles... I've always thought modernity a bit over-rated, and besides I worked in Portugal during the war. Still have reliable contacts there, the sort that someone younger might not live long enough to develop." Bond was cruel when he spoke, but made his point well enough. Q'ute nodded the point to Bond and began by lifting a square plastic box from a table.

It was the size of a pistol case, a bit larger than Bond was accustomed to, and he could not conceal his surprise and disgust when she opened it to show Bond that it was, a pistol case.  
Bond looked into her eyes and lamented the passing of finely worked, stained and varnished wooden boxes. It was only after she removed the pistol that Bond saw the gun was as objectionable as the bloody plastic box. As Q'ute wielded it Bond stepped back, not in fear but in horror.

Undaunted she spoke in the same expert manner as the botanical professor had in M's office. "It's the latest in handgun technology, a genuine force-multiplier... .45 ACP calibre, double barreled and double magazine fed as well, fired from a single trigger. It has the capabil-" Bond cut her off.  
"The thing is too big to be of any use, the weight will spoil the aim, recovery after a shot... 'shots' I should say, will be difficult and it can't be concealed at all. Have you any idea how much I've invested in tailoring all my outfits to the PPK?"  
Q'ute ruefully informed Bond that his Walther was as obsolete as... Bond finished her sentence, "As obsolete as I am?"

Seeing that she'd gotten off to a bad start, she tried to make the beastly gun seem more attractive. "You'll need the firepower on this one, 007. You're going up against one of the most dangerous men in the world, your PPK hasn't the hammer for him."  
Contemptuously Bond asked, "You mean Con Yak?"  
"No," Q'ute replied in a voice that was full of concern for Bond, "not Yak... his henchman and paid killer, a mountain of muscle, Russian wrestler, "Sham Pain."

_ [ 5 ]_

_Chapter 4_

The name cut into James Bond's memory like a scalpel. Sham Pain was almost a legend in the Community with a reputation for ferocity as well as sadism. A veteran of the Red Army in the Afghan War, he'd been recruited into Spetsnaz, Soviet Special Forces, killing on such a scale that even his superiors were afraid of him. He'd then been transferred to SMERSH - (Death to Spies) and with... their training, became even more lethal. Pain survived many wounds that would have killed a normal man, but Sham Pain was abnormal in every way... his bulk, his appetite for savagery, his cunning in finding and exploiting weaknesses in enemies, and his talent for torture. Bond never crossed paths with Pain, but a female French agent Bond was supposed meet in Algiers was abducted before the rendezvous could take place. The monster tortured and killed the girl, boldly leaving a package for Bond at the British Embassy, containing her heart.

Anyone else in the world who knew of Sham Pain would have turned white with fear at the news that he'd likely meet the man. But James Bond wasn't anyone else in the world, and he relished the prospect of a, "meeting." Q'ute saw this cold hunger for revenge in Bond's eyes, and it was she that became a little afraid of Bond. In all the years her Father had entertained her about his work and the people he worked with, especially stories about Bond, he had never mentioned that killer instinct. Despite the carefully controlled climate of Q Section, she shivered inside her long-sleeved smock and rubbed her shoulders for warmth.  
Seeing her reaction, Bond tried to make a joke to soothe her, "Sham Pain... sounds like a real 'brut' of a fellow."

The humour was lost on Q'ute who simply put the giant pistol back into it's plastic case in defeat. "Very well Bond," she said glad of the chance to turn and look away of the suddenly dangerous old man in her shop, "the Walther will have to suffice. Let's hope you'll find it as efficacious as it is stylish."  
Bond smiled, charming again as quickly as he'd been frightening a moment before, "You know what they say about fashion... everything old is new again. M said that I'd find my travel documents down here, I'm afraid that I must be off if I'm to make my flight - which airline have you people got me on anyway?"  
Q'ute answered with a gleam of irony in her eye, "Why, Amontillado Airlines of course."

_ [ 6 ]_

_ Chapter 5_

After finishing up at Q Section Bond had just enough time to fetch a bag from his flat and make the 1st Class boarding for his evening flight to Lisbon. Settling into a window seat with very few fellow travelers, Bond enjoyed a moment of relative peace before take-off. It surprised him that he also enjoyed a brief nap. Not one to admit he was getting old, Bond dismissed the thought and told himself it was the fatigue of the long day, and the night before with the two stewardesses. Uneventfully lifting off the ground, the Airbus effortlessly climbed to altitude. Leaning down a bit in his seat, Bond stared at the naked stars above with a sense of wonder that made him smile like a schoolboy. Seeing his face reflected in the window, Bond caught himself and got back into character just as the Flight Attendant inquired about his appetite. Bond had long since given up on airline food and simply asked for a medium dry vodka martini, with a slice of lemon peel instead of an olive. He was about to request that it be shaken and not stirred, when the pilot announced there was turbulence ahead. The news took the lovely Attendant away for more important tasks than fetching liquor.

There was indeed turbulence, more than was comfortable and Bond gripped the arm rests of his seat instinctively. It was over almost as soon as it had begun, and the same lovely Attendant returned with his martini. She spoke with a Mediterranean accent and a smile that came straight from the Aegean.

"I'm sorry Sir, it's a bit shaken up," she breathed in a professionally calm voice that betrayed her obvious anxiety over the recent turbulence, "but then we all are after that."  
Bond gladly accepting the drink and told her, "Never mind that it's to be expected when one flies, I'm just glad that we aren't all stirred up as well." He smiled at her reassuringly and made a funny gesture with his hand of a airplane fluttering down . She returned his smile and pushed her cart along, tending to the other passengers. The drink was almost perfect, bloody well cold and well shaken, but the lemon peel was too thin... it was only when he realised this that Bond thought of Vesper, the girl he'd named the drink for and how much the American botanist working for Con Yak reminded him of her.

Suddenly the drink was not as pleasing as it had been. Bond stared at it for some time, watched the lemon peel float, twist and turn, thinking of everything and nothing. After an age he tossed the drink down in a motion of finality to punctuate his rambling mind. Bond set his thoughts toward dinner and his meeting with Head of Lisbon Station, Beau Jolais.

_ [ 7 ]_

_ Chapter 6_

It was his habit, when possible, to have one strong drink before dinner and to his immense satisfaction the Airbus landed at Lisbon Portela Airport just as the martini took effect, softening the edges, soothing the nerves and making James Bond very hungry. He stepped off the plane into the warm night air, rich with a thousand fragrances of the sea, floral splendour and spices of some... sort that were always in the air in Lisbon. They had been since the War, when Bond was there to stop a Nazi spy from infiltrating into Ireland. He'd fallen in love with the place at once and always stopped at the mention of Lisbon, just as one might when reminded of an old flame.

At Customs he presented his credentials, answering the same standard questions with the same standard replies... "Yes, Bond... James Bond. Universal Exports. What do I do for them? Well, you might say that I'm a sort of... traveling trouble-shooter." When asked if the purpose of his visit was business or pleasure, Bond thought of the American he was supposed to seduce, and of the Russian that he wanted very much to kill. He replied icily, "Bit of both."

After picking up his luggage, Bond walked to the curbside kiosk, introduced himself and asked if there was a car for him. There was supposed to be and there was, a driver as well. He grinned eagerly at Bond as if aching for a tip from a generous foreigner before calling it a night, set the luggage into the boot as Bond eased into the rear seat. Before closing his own door and starting the engine, the driver asked Bond if he had the time.

Bond replied, "Sorry, no... my watch stopped at 11:15." It was the recognition code, and looking into the rear view mirror the grin widened to allow an introduction. "I am Beau Jolais, welcome to Lisbon Commander Bond!"  
Bond said thanks and leaned forward to ask why Head of Station was moonlighting as a driver. "Don't we pay you enough as HOS? Or do you have more than one Mistress with expensive appetites?"  
The grin became a belly laugh as Jolais spoke, "My dear Bond, my wife would slit my throat AFTER she'd removed my manhood if I even looked at another woman."  
Bond remembered the fiery blood of the women in Lisbon from his time there during the war, nodded in approval of his taste in a wife by asking if she had a Sister. Jolais simply smiled and said, "Speaking of appetite I hope you have a good one

_[ 8 ]_

Commander, we have reservations at the best restaurant in town, perhaps the world."  
Bond shot back, "You must mean Tavares." He did. He also informed Bond that they had the whole restaurant to themselves except for his ablest assistant. "You'll like her I think," Jolais told Bond with a twinkle in his eye, "she is very... good."  
"She?" Bond asked considering what Jolais had said earlier about his jealous wife.  
"Yes," came the reply, "my wife... Sherry Palomino."

_Chapter 7_

Jolais explained to Bond that his family owned the restaurant so it was neither insecure nor out of the ordinary for it to be closed to the public for an evening. As he was famished Bond hardly cared whether or not he'd have to tolerate background noise along with a meal and briefing, dining with Beau Jolais and Sherry was going to be a singular pleasure, one that Bond looked forward ...to telling people about in future. He smiled imagining their expressions... "Beau Jolais AND Sherry? At the same sitting?"

Arriving at Tavares, Jolais parked wherever he pleased of course, and both he and Bond seemed to rush for the entrance as if in a footrace, Jolais eager to reunite with his wife and Bond, famished as if he'd just had a footrace. Inside the place was brightly lit, ideally decorated to appear as if it hadn't been, and smelled like Heaven itself. Seated in the very centre of the restaurant, alone at the table was Sherry Palomino, smiling at her husband. Dressed in incredibly basic black that revealed nothing but her arms and the legs below the knee, she was nevertheless too compelling not to notice. Glancing at Jolais, Bond felt an unfamiliar pang of jealousy and was suddenly aware of how lonely life could be, and was. Bond allowed himself a quick peek at an alternative future of he and old Q, both retired, fishing together. Jolais broke the spell Bond had cast upon himself.

"Commander Bond, this is my wife, Sherry.", he said with more than a hint of pride.  
Stretching out her hand gracefully, she lit up the room with a voice that matched the rest of her, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Commander Bond. Beau has told me so much about you."  
Bond replied half returning her smile and looking at her husband as well, Bond said, "Pleasure to be met

_[ 9 ]_

from what Beau has told me. you're quite an... asset." English not being either of their native tongues, it took a moment for the entendre to take effect. Bond was not surprised when it was Sherry that first caught on. She blushed slightly as her husband flashed that infectious grin of his.  
He and Bond sat on either side of her, and heard her announce there were no menus as she had decided the fare for all three of them. Jolais nodded his approval and sat upright a bit straighter in his chair in obvious pride.

"Well, "said Bond. "when in Lisbon..."

Palomino chose well for their dinner, marcona almonds with manchego cheese while they settled down, sea bass fillets with tomatoes, roasted red peppers and almond sauce served with rice prepared in saffron while his hosts briefed Bond on the latest they had on Yak, and quince jelly set atop slices of manchego for dessert as they plotted how. where and when to ruin his days.

Bond was impressed by the quality of the intelligence, told them both that he was, and then had every question he asked answered, every contingency, even those Bond had little interest in, already considered, counted and a means to deal with them initiated, waiting only on his word for implementation.

Yak was going to be showing off his latest Green Thing the next day, a gift to the city of Lisbon that also kept Yak in the spotlight. Brandy the botanist was to be at his side, ready to take the questions from a fawning press while Yak, likely escorted by Sham Pain, was off to only God knew what. Instinct told Bond to follow Yak, but his orders were to concentrate on robbing him of the American girl, turning her away from, "The Dark Side" and toppling the Con Yak machine. Jolais had a cousin in the press corps that would help orchestrate a bit of cabaret that would bring Peach Brandy into his path, his arms and into his bed. There, Bond was to do his utmost to show her the error of her ways. Confident that he could, Bond knew he'd need plenty of sleep before the carefully arranged introduction.

"Well," Bond said to his hosts, "I don't know what you two have in mind for the rest of the night, but I need my beauty sleep."

Grinning again, Beau Jolais reached into his pocket for the keys to the car he had waiting outside the restaurant for Bond, and tossed him the keys, reminding Bond of the speed limit. "I may have family all over Lisbon Commander, but none in the traffic police." He rose as Bond did, shook his hand warmly and gave his assurances that all would be as he said it would, through the night and the next morning.

Smiling at them both, Bond knew that he had an excellent support staff for this assignment, and said, "I'll sleep like a baby then. Well," he corrected himself, "a baby that creaks a bit." They all laughed and bade one another goodnight.

_[ 10 ]_

Bond strode out into the crisp night air, savoured the smell of Lisbon again with a deep lungful of air, and eased into the car - a vintage Jaguar. A black one, with rich leather seats and custom wood accents inside. Bond felt for the top of the gear shift lever, thumbing it to see if there was an ejector seat. There wasn't.

The short drive to his hotel was long enough for Bond to enjoy it as well as the view of the city at night, that same view he'd fell in love with during the War. Almost the same view anyhow. He glanced at his own reflection in the rear view to mark how much he'd changed since the War as well.

Leaving the car to the capable staff at his Hotel, Bond fetched his key from the night manager, said goodnight and went straight up to his suite. Eager for bed, Bond shed his clothes quickly and left them in a folded pile at the foot of the bed, slid naked between the cool sheets and stared at the inside of his eyelids.

He thought of the day just past, the splendid meal, the day to come and what he needed to do. The wine and the fatigue both carried him to that long familiar tunnel of sleep, and just before he fell into it, he saw the face there waiting for him, of the first woman he'd ever loved, and the last.

Vesper Lynd haunted his sleep since the day she died, and the single tear that rolled down his cheek would have told him that she always would.

_Chapter 8_

Rising early the next morning, Bond showered, shaved and dressed quickly despite having plenty of time before his encounter with Peach Brandy. He went down to a sumptuous breakfast which he enjoyed, very slowly. Pleasure was every bit as important to James Bond as anything else in his job, and he took it all quite seriously.

After his meal, he took a long walk to clear his mind... of all but the essentials. He drank in the sights, the smells and the pace of the people of Lisbon, all to whet his appetite for, and to sharpen his skills at seduction, which were considerable. The American botanist, according to her file, was likely be most stimulated by intellect, so, Bond prepared himself for am assault on her mind. The rest would almost certainly follow.

The walk ended when he came to a charming sidewalk cafe, where he stopped to have a selfish lunch. If he failed to stop Con Yak and the world did end, he told himself that he might as well enjoy the time he had left. Watching the people around him as he did, clueless as to the war taking place in the shadows, deciding life and death while they wasted the day, was typical. The people never seemed to notice and

_[ 11 ]_

certainly would never truly appreciate the secret victories that made the world safe for them. Bond sighed to punctuate his thoughts, and went to the square to pursue his prey for the day.

Meeting his contact for his forged press credentials, Bond took up a likely spot and waited. Con Yak loved to arrive at exactly the right moment, usually just late enough for the expectation to build up to a showering of applause. When he did, Bond stiffened at the sight of Sham Pain, walking close behind his Master. It required some effort for him to take away his eyes and seek out the girl.  
Searching the coterie and the crowd, Bond finally saw her casually making her way to the edge of the stage where Yak had already begun to speak. Bond ignored his words. Instead, he moved as closely as possible to the girl, astonished at how much she resembled Vesper... they might have been Sisters, even Mother & Daughter. Intoxicated by emotions long dormant, Bond drifted away from reality to imagine that Vesper had not died, not betrayed him, that they had been married... had a Daughter. He regarded her tenderly as a Father might. Then snapped back into character, steeling himself for their encounter, which would be decidedly, UN-familial.

Yak finished his mendacious speech, the girl took his place at the microphones and made a brief presentation of her own. Bond moved closer to catch her eye.  
As the assembled press peppered her with questions, she handled them with ease, making the crowd as much hers as it had been for Yak moments before. Several times she looked to Bond, silently offering him a chance for a question. He refused the bait, tempting her with his intense gaze. He stared into her eyes, looked up at her hair only to let his eyes fall upon her body. He drank her in, all of her, deliberately making her aware of him. The more he saw of her, the more she looked back at him, the more he smiled.

She finished her talk and turned to him... "Who are you?" she demanded.  
"Bond." he said... "James Bond."

_Chapter 9_

"Well Mr. Bond," she said indignantly, "you're wearing a press pass and yet you haven't asked me a single question, nor did I see you taking any notes of any kind. What did you come here for today?"  
Still smiling, he replied, "The people I write for are interested in more than the banter one hears all too often at these things... I came here for an in depth interview."  
"And who do you write for?" she asked slightly more interested in him than she had been.  
"Officially the Foreign Office, but my report is likely to end up in all sorts of places." If she had the intention to rebuff him she'd have done so and walked away. Bond knew he'd made the first hurdle, so he went for the next by stepping forward, taking her arm in his and inviting her for a stroll through the famed botanical gardens. Naturally, she accepted.

_ [ 12 ]_

They went in her car, Bond opening her door for her and uncustomary took the passenger seat, plying her with questions about this or that all through the drive. By the time they'd arrived she was more than eager to talk about her work. Bond knew very well how most people loved to chat about themselves, especially to a sensitive listener, or one that appeared to be... sensitive.  
Entering the grounds, the air changed, it was cooler for one thing and strangely refreshing in it's own quiet way. Dappled sunlight broke through the gaps that there were, bathing them in shadow, then soft light and back again. Bond quickly asked her how she met Con Yak.  
She explained how he'd visited her personally after she'd returned with her find in the Antarctic, offered her unlimited funds for research which she lept at. When asked specifically about his passion for cork, she was hooked.

"The tree, Quercus suber, has the unique ability to survive forest fires and quickly rejuvenate it's leaves... they thrive in arid climates and are drought resistant. I've been trying to genetically alter fruit bearing trees to display the same characteristics." She stopped and turned to face Bond. "If we can harvest fruit almost anywhere in the world, especially the Third World, hunger can end and with it, wars."

Bond saw her as again as an idealistic child, easily misled by the Svengali-like Yak, offering her a chance to make her dreams come true. With such a goal and his unlimited resources, she could just as easily be persuaded to manufacture the final plague.  
So, he asked her,"Why then if you want to end hunger and war would you make anything to extinguish all animal life on Earth?"

Recoiling at the question, she moved away from Bond... "Who are you... really?"  
"I'm with British Intelligence, but I'm an advocate for all animal life on Earth as well. Neither you nor Con Yak have the right play God... or Lucifer." His eyes bored into her, seeking an opening to exploit.  
She looked around for help from someone, anyone. Bond asked if she was looking for Sham Pain to rescue her. Defiantly she replied that she didn't need any help. She added, "Sham Pain is a bodyguard for show, he's nothing but an ex-wrestler."

Drawing a tired breath, Bond gave her the shorthand history, "Wrestling was just something he did after serving the proletariat. Yak picked him up for his talent for violence." Looking deeper into her eyes, he saw that he was merely verifying what she'd already knew, or suspected. Still regarding her with tenderness, which surprised Bond, he gave himself away.  
Aware of this, she looked up at him curiously, "You don't look at me like most men... why?"  
Feeling both guilty of his concern for the girl and his unprofessional vulnerability before her, he turned away from her and confessed, "You remind me of someone." And then after an age, "You could've been her Daughter."

Moving closer to Bond, as if to increase their sudden intimacy, she offered, "You mean to say... your Daughter?"

_ [ 13]_

Closing his eyes, Bond nodded in affirmation. He had no idea that he'd found, exploited and entered her at her most vulnerable point... since her own Father had died, she had been lost. Con Yak had seemed to be a likely substitute, but he never saw anything in her intellect and how he might use it. She reached out to touch his arm.

When she did, Bond turned toward her and reciprocated the sentiment. He knew that he could never seduce the girl now, nor was he willing to try, even if it meant the end of the world. He bore in, telling her all about the blackmail of the world and how Yak was just as evil as Sham Pain. She defended the virus she'd created as only a bluff, something only a madman would actually loose upon the world.

Taking her arm in his again, Bond led her back to the car, feeding her information that the Service knew that she didn't. He asked her details about Yak's movements, where he went that she was never allowed, etc, hoping to find out what he needed to know and quickly while she was willing to talk.  
Stopping short of the exit, she was about to tell Bond everything she knew that might help him, when his universe exploded in brilliant light, and pain. His knees buckled as he fought to clear his mind and failed. The light began to fade as he swept back his jacket with his gun hand, feeling for the Walther. The girl screamed.

Bond found the grip of his pistol at the precise moment everything went black, and he was quite unconscious before his face fell into the crushed gravel of the footpath.

_Chapter 10_

Bond awoke but kept his eyes shut, stayed very still and listened carefully while taking stock of his body. The headache told him he'd been rendered unconscious by a blow and a powerful one at that. There didn't seem to be any restraints on him, nobody seemed to be about so he risked opening his eyes for a peek. He was alone, in some sort of barely lit factory, machinery and the smell of manufacturing, oil and sweat assailed his nose.

He sat up slowly but it was still too fast for the headache and Bond winced. He was indeed unfettered, didn't even seem to be watched... getting to his feet was even more painful for his head than he imagined, but this time he did not wince. Training and experience had taught him to isolate physical pain and injury, to concentrate on the job, whatever it was. It took him a moment to remember the girl.

_ [ 14]_

Sham Pain must've followed them to the botanical gardens and made off with them both, Bond here, wherever 'here' was and the girl? Likely to an audience with Con Yak, accusations of betrayal. Bond shuddered in a rage at what Pain would almost certainly do to her.

A few rays of light streaked in from high windows overhead, far too high to climb up to. In the semi-gloom, Bond just out the shape of a door and made for it, uncomfortably. He was nearly there when someone switched on all the lights, and said in a cheerful voice, "Nice to see you up and about Mr. Bond." It had to be Con Yak.

Looking around, Bond answered. "Thank you... I don't suppose that you have breakfast ready, do you? I could use some coffee." A booming laugh filled Bond with unease... Yak, or whomever it was had all the cards, Bond needed to buy some time if he was to be of any use to himself, the girl or the damned world.

The voice continued, "I was afraid that Sham Pain might've hurt you too much... I'm pleased that you are only a little... bottle sick." It was Yak after all. Bond was about to ask about the girl when Yak announced. "Still, we have time for him to try again. I'm confident that the next time you wake up... you won't." He motioned for Bond to look to the door he'd been headed to. It opened, and the framed filled with the largest man Bond had ever seen in his life. The mountain of muscle, the indestructible sadist that cut the heart out of the French agent and sent it to Bond. The man he most wanted to meet, Sham Pain.

Yak offered Bond his farewell and asked Pain to, "Please hurt Mr. Bond." The Russian showed his teeth like a vicious dog just unleashed by his Master, and quickly moved towards Bond. He was almost upon him by the time Bond had ducked and rolled out of his grasp, a section of the production line now between them. He'd never seen anyone move that fast and was astonished that someone with his bulk could be so lithe.

Sham Pain giggled as if he enjoyed playing with Bond like this, and relished showing Bond just

how athletic he was by jumping over the waist high barrier that Bond had passed beneath. Bond backed away, his hands feeling for some sort of weapon, some tool or bar a worker might have not put away. The was none.

Rushing at Bond, the Russian reached out for him with both hands open like the jaws of some massive beast. Expecting Bond to run again or faint, Pain was surprised when instead Bond slipped past him and kicked out furiously at a knee. It was a good blow, enough to disable an ordinary man, but Pain stayed on his feet, his only reaction a grunt. Whether from pain or surprise Bond could only guess.

_[ 15 ]_

James Bond knew that he had to have some sort of advantage, so he ran at top speed away from the Russian, frantically looking for a suitable place to turn the tables. He ran past a maze of machinery, stacks of plastic pallets, with the sound of the Russian in hot pursuit, his footsteps echoing off the silent factory floor, growing louder as he closed the distance on his prey. An alcove appeared on the left, Bond took it hoping to find an unlocked door at the end, but there was none.

Trapped, Bond turned to leave but Pain was already there, grinning triumphantly and slowly, confidently moved in for the kill. He spoke in clipped English, "You like the gift I leave for you in Algiers?" Taunting Bond with the heart of the dead French agent was Pain's last mistake.

All his life, James Bond had been a gambler, carefully weighing the odds and then taking an informed risk. He knew that a sadist like Pain would take his time killing Bond, crippling him one bit at a time. The small alcove was indeed a trap, but not for Bond.

_Chapter 11_

Bond gambled that the sadistic Russian would toy with his prey a bit before the kill, and the alcove was the perfect arena for his performance. The walls were lined with shelving securely attached to the three walls, filled with manuals for the equipment and offered no weapon of opportunity for Bond, so... he baited the Russian with immobility, drawing him into the alcove to begin...

Unable to resist smashing up the great 007, Sham Pain began by tossing Bond powerfully into the wall behind him. "That's one..." thought Bond, and fell into a pile of spilled technical manuals. Picking him up for another toss into another wall, Pain paused to add humiliation and to reinforce the sense of impotence Bond now began to feel.

With a massive paw of a hand, Pain took the trigger finger of James Bond and held it as if to admire it. Then, smiling at Bond he bent it backward slowly, deliciously slowly for the Russian as he watched the face of his helpless victim contort and finally spasm when the bone broke.

Before Bond could articulate his agony he was thrown into a second wall, again falling to the floor amid another pile of books, drawings and maintenance logs. "Good bastard," Bond said to himself, "you're halfway way there... keep it up." As the broken finger began to swell, Bond wondered if he could keep up the pace himself. Two tosses to go.

_[ 16 ]_

Pain finally spoke. "Shames Bundd... master spion! Helpless as...," Pain had thought to say 'child' but he thought of the French girl he'd tortured, killed and mutilated by sending her heart to Bond.

"Helpless as... little French spy."

Moving as fast as an African lion, Pain reached down to seize Bond again, but before throwing him into a third wall, he held Bond up high, his feet well off the floor and swung him from side to side, building up energy for a crushing impact with the final of the three walls in the alcove.

Bond was nearly broken by the crash, at least two of his ribs had broken - he felt them even before he landed on the floor, his head was badly cut on the lip of a metal shelf, and the flow of blood seemed to thrill the Russian. He almost sang as he lifted Bond for the final toss, outside of the alcove, back into the maze of machinery. Bond landed almost precisely where he'd hoped to.

The moment he'd realised it was a dead end. and had turned to get out, Bond saw the giant "L" of a stamping machine behind the Russian as he cut off any hope of escape for Bond. When the lights had been turned on for his chat with Yak, power had been restored to the machinery as well... Bond saw the activation light winking at him. Folded upright into an "L" the device was left so by the last shift of workmen, and Bond saw that the hydraulic piston that made the stampings was about head high to Bond, chest high for the Russian. Perfect.

Bond painfully drew himself upright, as upright as he could manage with his battered body, and held onto the machine for support, daring the Russian to predictably close for the kill. Sham Pain offered Bond a quick, relatively painless death if only he would beg to die. Bond replied, his mouth overflowing with blood, "Go an fluck yourselb."

Pain took the bait. He strode toward Bond with an expression of sheer joy at the thought of literally crushing Bond between his hands. Stiffening himself as if for the inevitable, Bond pressed his hand onto the panel of the stamping machine. Reaching out for Bond, Sham Pain was close enough to touch his hair when Bond thumbed down the winking green switch.

The piston was nearly three feet long, the diameter of a large coin, intended to punch out a circle of metal for the making of wine bottle caps for the new and improved sealing system for Conrad Yak. But in the upright position, the piston shot outward vertically and into the chest of the Russian. It smashed through his breastbone, pierced the heart, and cut a cookie-cutter crisp hole into and then out of the shoulder blade. A sausage-like section of displaced flesh spat out of the back of the dying Russian, and fell with a sickening slap onto the floor.

For the first and last time in his life, Sham Pain felt utterly defeated. With his heart destroyed, the oxygenated blood nourishing his brain allowed him only a few seconds left of life. He didn't know what to do, and looked helplessly at Bond, for help, for an answer, anything.

_[ 17 ]_

Bond spat out a mouthful of blood and said in flawless Russian, "I always thought that you were heartless." Just as this made sense to Pain, he fell backward, as stiff as an ironing board onto the floor. Knowing from experience in such matters that the dead were often able to still hear for a few moments after technically dying, Bond leaned down to the Russian's ear. "That was for Amelie."

His mind racing to think of what to do next, Bond felt with his good hand for anything that might direct him. He had to find and stop Yak, rescue the girl and save the damned world. Somehow. Quickly thinking the Russian would need some sort of map to get around Lisbon, Bond searched for and found his cellphone... punched a button or two and was rewarded with a display that lead straight to Yak, a villa outside the city. Feeling like his old self again, despite his injuries, which were considerable, Bond inhaled and smiled at the thought of being able to save the day.

"Well I'm damned," he told the dead Russian, "there's an App for that."

_[ 18 ]_


End file.
